


have your way with me until you go

by wafflesandkruge



Category: Nikolai Series - Leigh Bardugo, The Grisha Trilogy - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Mutual Pining, Yearning, a king never kneels except for zoya, nik braids her hair and i'm soft, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-13 18:15:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28782564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wafflesandkruge/pseuds/wafflesandkruge
Summary: Nikolai and Zoya's morning routines are like clockwork. She wakes him with a drop of stimulant. He makes a witty quip. Neither of them acknowledge what's between them.So when Zoya shows up late, it's reasonable to assume that nothing else will go as planned.
Relationships: Nikolai Lantsov & Zoya Nazyalensky, Nikolai Lantsov/Zoya Nazyalensky
Comments: 3
Kudos: 97





	have your way with me until you go

**Author's Note:**

> it's literally just 2k of yearning, take it.

When Nikolai woke, it was less surfacing gently from the sea of sleep than being abruptly spat out onto dry land by a monster. He inhaled sharply, his mind instantly assaulted with his surroundings. He was on his bed at the Grand Palace. Chains were once again fastened around his wrists. And an unfairly lovely face was hovering above his, her dark curls brushing his bare chest.

“Zoya,” he greeted with a groan, “how kind of you to grace me with your delightful presence this fine morning. I feel healthier already.”

She barely spared him a glance as she leaned over him to unlock the shackle on his right wrist. He caught a whiff of her hair, the same strangely familiar wildflower scent as always.

“Getting a head start on the flattery, are we?” Her voice was rough, strained. He could see a near imperceptible tremor in her hands as she fitted her key into the lock. It took her multiple tries to get the stubborn thing to turn. Odd, when she’d practically perfected the technique of unchaining a king from his bed months ago. 

He shifted to get a closer look at her. Dark shadows bloomed under her eyes, her brows furrowed as she attempted to unlock the last shackle. Her hair was in sore need of brushing. Saints, had she really emerged from her rooms looking like that? Perhaps she was human like the rest of them after all.

“Late night?” he attempted. “ _ Fun  _ night?”

“Only you would think of fun while facing war on six fronts, my king.” She moved away as soon as the shackle sprang open as if she didn’t want to be near him for any longer than necessary.

He sat up and watched her retreat into the sitting room, rubbing at his sore wrists. Had he done something to offend her recently? Besides daring to breathe the same air as her, naturally. He pondered the question as he washed and dressed mechanically.

When he emerged from his room, he found Zoya hovering in front of a gilded mirror with a ribbon in her hands. As he watched, she attempted to pull her hair into something more manageable than its current frazzled state, but each time she’d miss a strand or the knot would become undone as soon as she dropped her hands. His eyes met hers in the mirror. The dark smudges under her eyes only seemed to make them bluer than ever. An untold secret seemed to lurk behind their depths, but she’d probably sooner jump out the window than confide in him.

“You’re a mess, Zoya.”

“Says the man who was just chained to his bed.” There wasn’t nearly enough venom in her voice to reassure him of his general’s wellbeing. He crossed the room and plucked the ribbon from her hands. She made no move to stop him.

“You know, I once had a promising future as a hairdresser,” he remarked idly as he took a strand of her hair in his hands after a moment’s hesitation. It was impossibly silky, and if he’d been wearing his gloves, he was sure it would have slipped right out of his hands. The dark scars on his fingers were hidden among the loose curls, and for just a moment, he could pretend he was just another man. But Zoya would never be just another woman to him, would she? He used his fingers to carefully comb out the worst of the tangles. 

“Is that so?” The words were a challenge, or perhaps an invitation. He could never quite tell with her.

“Girls would line up at the door when they heard I was in town just to get the newest styles done by me,” he boasted. It was true, to an extent. By “girls,” he’d meant Dominik’s two little sisters, Faina and Polina who had adored their brother’s mysterious friend. They’d forced him to arrange their hair just like the ladies at court, and because he never did anything only halfway, he’d bribed one of his mother’s servants to teach him just so he’d have something to delight them with. For a moment, he could hear Dominik’s warm laughter as his sisters eagerly showed off their pretty braids. 

_ Some prince you are _ , he’d said with a grin as the two of them tore into his mother’s sweet pastries.  _ All you’re good for is making the ladies happy. _

_ Not just the ladies _ , Nikolai had wanted to say, but Dominik had already turned to yell at his sisters for playing too close to the river.

But now Dominik was gone, and all he had left was the broken country that had failed him. And Zoya, always Zoya. 

His fingers skimmed the warm skin at her neck as he pulled back another strand of hair. Zoya was barely moving, only letting out the occasional hiss when he accidentally pulled too hard. As he plaited her hair, his eyes wandered down to the collar of her kefta. It was slung unusually low this morning, and from his vantage point, he could see the tip of one of her scars, the paler strip of skin just visible beneath the fur collar. He couldn’t help thinking about how easy it’d be to lean forward and press a kiss to the back of her neck. Would she pull away? He swallowed and averted his eyes. Saints, this had to be some game of hers, didn’t it? Sometimes he wondered if the little things she did- sending looks his way that from anyone else, would have been a reason for scandal, or letting her fingers linger on his as she handed him something- were on purpose. But he'd heard the stories of the people she’d toyed with when she was younger and crueler. She played for the sake of the game, not the prize, and if the stories were true, she had yet to lose. He was never quite sure if she was playing the same game with him, but if she was, her winning streak wasn't going to be broken. He blinked and focused on Zoya’s reflection again.

“Zoya.”

“What?”

“What’s wrong?”

As expected, she crossed her arms and scowled into the mirror. “Nothing. Hurry up so we can be on our way, or people will talk.”

“People already talk. Why do you look like you stayed out drinking with Genya and didn’t get a wink of sleep?” He pressed the issue, not sure if she would tell him anything at all. Even after three years of rebuilding a country together, there were still some lines Zoya refused to cross. 

“Maybe I did go out drinking with Genya.” Her voice was curt, clipped. He didn’t believe her for an instant.

“Without inviting me? How treasonous.” 

“You were unwanted.” 

At least her poisonous tongue was back. He supposed it was better than nothing. His braid finished, he tied it off with a neat bow. “There,” he said softly, admiring his handiwork. He let his hands linger in her hair for a moment longer before pulling them back. “Now you look a fraction more presentable.”

In the mirror, Zoya’s lips quirked upwards. “What an excellent valet you make.”

He was instantly reminded of that night in the carriage, Zoya snug in his arms as they played the role of sated lovers. She’d seen him at his worst, and yet she was still here every morning to wake him and face the country together. He supposed he ought to have returned the favor somehow, but what did he have left to give? Somehow, Zoya didn’t seem like someone who’d have use for his eternal gratitude or respect. 

“Your buttons are done wrong,” he muttered as he caught sight of her kefta in the mirror. Either she’d had a very good night, or a very bad night, but he couldn’t decide which was worse. He spun her by the shoulders and hesitated for a moment before kneeling. Vasily’s voice echoed in his head as he refastened the first of the pearl buttons.  _ A king never kneels, brother _ . But his brother had never met Zoya Nazyalensky.

He glanced up at her, but her gaze was faraway, her arms crossed over her chest as she worried at her bottom lip. 

“A king’s kneeling in front of you, shouldn’t you be a bit more excited?” he quipped, somewhat desperate to get a normal reaction from her. 

She raised a brow. “I’ve had plenty of men kneel before me in the past. Why would a king be any different unless he offers me a country as well?”

He moved on to the buttons over her stomach. “If I recall correctly, I already did. You weren’t thrilled.”

She stiffened. He rose to his feet again as he finished the buttons over her chest. The pearls gleamed in a neat line down the front of her kefta, nestled in the whorls of silver embroidery. He could spend hours tracing the patterns with his eyes, and he often did during particularly trying Triumvirate meetings. He resisted the urge to trace one of the spirals with a finger. Finally, he got to the buttons at her neck.

"Do take care next time to not look like..." His voice trailed off as his eyes left the saints forsaken buttons for a moment to find Zoya's exquisite face entirely too close to his. Even exhausted, her features still spoke of regality and poise, her blue eyes bright and defiant as they stared right back at him. Nikolai's eyes tried to return to the task at hand, but they met a distraction on the way, namely, her lips.  _ Saints, her lips _ . He swallowed hard and tried to force his fingers to move. 

"Like what?" she demanded. 

"Like..." 

_ A girl in need of kissing _ . 

"...a toddler who tried to dress herself," he finished weakly. Then, as if his hand had a mind of its own, it drifted upwards and swept an errant lock of Zoya’s hair back behind her ear. His palm brushed her cheek and hovered there. He could scarcely breathe as if her closeness had sucked all the air from the room.

Zoya peered up at him from under her lashes, her gaze inscrutable. Then she sighed and let her cheek rest against his palm for the briefest heartbeat. Her warmth had barely registered before she was stepping back again, her general’s mask firmly back in place as if nothing had happened. Nikolai tried not to let it sting too much as he tucked his hands into his coat pockets. 

“Anything else for me to fix? A broken shoe? A lonely heart?”

The last one was a jest, but Zoya’s lips pursed as if he’d caused a problem she’d have to fix later. “No. Let’s go. The Triumvirate has been waiting long enough.”

She turned to go, then paused halfway to the door. A foolish seed of hope took root in Nikolai’s heart, only to be trampled with her next words.

“Don’t forget your gloves.”

She swept out of the room without another backwards glance, the scent of wildflowers and thunderstorms left in her wake. 

He would play her game, he decided as he found his gloves and slipped them on. Having his heart broken by Zoya Nazyalensky was still preferable to the impossibility of staying away from her. 


End file.
